Beneath the skin
by voidss
Summary: His eyes, red as the blood that dirtied his maw, were of a man driven by rage, despair, and hunger. Especially hunger.
1. Itching teeth

**I had a deep craving for monster genichiro, and i thought i should take the step and fix this myself if none would do it.**

**SPECIAL THANKS TO:**

**windsabove for beta-reading my work. Thank you so so much for this, hun ❤**

**derthercksdoodles for the amazing fanart of my monster baby and for the cover. I love it so much 3**

* * *

He made it back to the Lord's chambers with the intent to deliver him the gift he finally obtained from the Divine Realm.

Except that his Lord was gone, and Lady Emma had knelt beside what looked like a bundle of boney limbs wrapped in a worn out yukata…

"Lord Isshin..." Wolf hastened to join them. "What happened?"

Emma was very still, but she didn't raise her head to look him in the eyes. "Lord Isshin… he succumbed to his illness and passed away." Her voice was distant, as if frozen in time.

"... I … see."

"I'm sure you sensed it. The Central Forces have taken this opportunity to attack the castle." She explained. Wolf watched her fingers brush a strand of white hair away from the corpse's forehead. Despite Emma's words being aimed at him, Wolf sensed as if she were present in a more metaphysical sense, her mind captive by something powerful. Isshin wore a grotesque grimace, yellow teeth on full display. It resulted in a provocative sight, and although Wolf had seen far, far worse than that, something still settled in his stomach.

"And the Divine Heir?"

Emma's face shifted. The query seemed to bring her back into Kuro's room, when the brown fabric over her shoulders began shaking, almost sporadically. Wolf knelt down beside the corpse, facing her.

"He has been… taken away… _I_ …"

The ever composed doctor that had aided shinobi countless times, who wouldn't flinch a muscle over a threat, was weeping.

Wolf had learnt such a thing only meant bad news.

"_Who_ was it, Lady Emma?" The shinobi growled, snapping her back into reality. " _Where_ is Lord Kuro?"

She raised her left hand. In her grasp there were what looked like thick tendrils of long, ashen fur tangling around her fingers, presented to Wolf's heedful gaze. Each one of them was slippery in blood that dripped from a wound in her abdomen she had been trying to hide.

"If I die tonight, I'll be happy knowing I inflicted enough pain upon **_him_** to slow it down. But Lord Kuro… he needs your help, Master Wolf."

The shinobi took the palid hairs in his hand, frowning at the blood that caught between his fingers.

"_Who_ did this to you?"

Emma pursed her lips before reaching out to gently cup his hand, conveying him with her trust.

"Lord Genichiro."

* * *

The General wondered if the Rejuvenating Waters would abide the effects of transmutation to become a permanent matter, whether his brain would turn into a gooey mass of corruption, detached from his rational mindset, which was foremost warning him that clawing deep into the flesh of his own people was not something his grandfather would have been proud of.

But he was too far gone to think through his actions. He wasn't even human anymore.

Armor was being torn apart, like knives against tender flesh, digging into the wounds that the monster itself had created with the pressure and strength of sharpened blades at the tip of its fingers. Genichiro growled his hunger off, dragging the mangled body of one helpless guard across the stone ground with his front teeth, before roughly tearing into the crimson flesh of their chest, taking a generous chunk into his mouth and crunching the muscles and bones carelessly before swallowing with ease, ignoring the young boy's face that watched the spectacle with deep horror in his eyes.

"Lord Genichiro—", the young lord stammered, despite staying as close as possible to the rabid beast that had imprisoned the General inside, "you need to open your eyes."

He did, though not in the sense Lord Kuro wanted him to. Those eyes, red as the blood that dirtied his maw, were of a man driven by rage, despair, and hunger.

_Especially_ hunger.

The young lord backed off, perchance in fear of enduring the same fate as the unfortunate corpse, but the beast simply glanced at the boy's small size from over his loin before returning to the carnage at hand. In seconds, what was once a full body had been left to nothing but a mess of bones and entrails.

When he was done, he pulled the boy towards him until he was face against the fur in his chest, which stank of guts and dirt. The beast grunted uncomfortably, for the cut in his clavicle still managed to distress him. ( _Bloody doctor! I hope she rots in Hell!_ )

"Lord Genichiro…", the boy protested, but he didn't strive back. Small hands came up to hold onto thick, ashen strands of fur. The beast switched then to a rumbling sound, similar to a tiger's purr, and forced the boy to keep steady as it climbed atop a building; then, they lost themselves in the battlefield.

He did lunge at anyone and anything that interposed between him and his avarice. His claws itched to tear into something; his teeth longed for the primal pleasure of biting and taking. His ears cherished the screams of excruciating pain. And so he made it to the castle outskirts, across the wooden bridge, built by the interior forces for the sole purpose of reaching the fortress and taking over.

"Is it…?"

"Yeah… it's the General, Lord Genichiro!"

It wasn't difficult to tell. The creature was _mighty_ and beastly, but the features were a reflection of the human that it once was: troubled and demented. Black hairs fell down its head like noodles — _his_ hair—. His body had gone raw boned, but the bountiful amount of fur that covered it made up for the imperfections. Even like that, he still proved to have enough strength left in him, driven by his infuriating desire to overtake the land that he had once sworn to protect.

The Ashina troops bowed before him, though the General no longer cared; he swept them away like rats, caged them between his fangs, and _chewed_. A whirlwind of anguish and dread was perpetual in their faces, even the interior ministry troops stood back from the ravenous beast, despite it having already been weakened enough to slow down the corruption of the waters he drank, slowly but surely rotting his brain; despite the wound that Genichiro was fighting to disregard and which was leaving a trail of crimson where he walked, his presence alone made it frightful for the Red Guard to witness, whose people resulted in far more skilled and powerful warriors than the entire Ashina militia.

Someone behind him spoke in a whisper:

"... what have you done?"

He turned his head. The boy whimpered at the view that fronted at the General: a man wearing an orange haori down to his knees. The prosthesis that served as his left arm was unmistakable. Even prey to his own madness, Genichiro still recognized the shinobi. Anyone could.

_"Shinobi of the divine heir, we meet again"._

The young lord shouted the shinobi's name once, but then, he kept on doing so until it lacked any meaning. (_So Wolf is it…?_ ).

The dog had come to rescue its master.

Genichiro laughed, or at least, he attempted to, delivering a rusty screech that chilled their bones. Even at a reasonable distance, the beast still managed to smell the shinobi: blood and iron; dirt and sweat. But most importantly: flesh.

He was drooling and cornering him before he knew it, Lord Kuro's cries a distant echo in the back of his head.


	2. Finger licking good

There was the tapping of claws against wood getting heavier the more he prowled towards the shinobi. On his fours, Genichiro still proved to be an outmatched foe. Wolf thought he could snatch onto Father with little to no endeavor, if the man were still alive. The back of the beast was ridged and the hairs there were bristly, rising up higher than the rest of them. It made Wolf think vaguely of stray cats he had spotted during his travels. Genichiro _almost_ moved like one, the agile limbs and the slim body swaying from side to side while cornering his prey; the "almost" could be accentuated by the exaggerated seesaw of his spine nonetheless, like a puppeteer leading the strings of a doll. It too reminded Wolf of something else: a headless ape that had lived far too long in the mouth of the Rejuvenating Waters, whose body had gone corrupt by the prolonged exposure. Its body had moved as if propelled by an invisible force.

In that moment, had Wolf been aware of the certainty that Genichiro's rot not only would tear his mind apart, but also the rest of the organs that made that body a _living_ one, maybe then, _just maybe_, he might have been able to feel something close to pity.

It was a miracle the boy was still in one piece. Did the general hold onto his belief that Lord Kuro was the key for the salvation of Ashina, still in that horrible shape and after all the blood he had shamelessly spilled?

Those red eyes… the **_hunger_ **engraved in them...

"Wolf, please! Get out!"

He saw it coming. Quick as an arrow, those claws had aimed for the shinobi's neck, but Wolf rolled to one side before the claws could sink in. He was quick as well, and drew Fushigiri with a flash before slashing the beast's arm in swift, calculated swipes, spattering blood upon the wooden floor.

A pained screech came out of its mouth.

* * *

As if overwhelmed by fear to lose the boy, Genichiro didn't lower his guard. Instead, he squeezed the young lord against him, unaware that the child was struggling for air. He stared at the severed arm that laid on the ground — his left one—, sliced off in the most humiliating way.

_"Bastard…!"_

The guards that hitherto stood away from them grew bolder and proceeded to shoot a few flaming arrows at the beastly general, burning spikes that scorched some of the fur and turned it a dark color, a peculiar contrast to the rest of the pale pelage. It made his skin itch, but nothing that matched the numbing pain, rooting from the split humerus and tendons, that climbed like vicious snakes towards the scapula. Not even the wound in his clavicle had given him such a scourge. Had he felt such horrid pain when he had taken his arm from him that night…?

He loosened his grasp on the young lord a little, if only to stand on two legs. Both shinobi and guards flinched at the size of the thing.

_"Turns out grandfather was on the right tracks… rats, rats… all of you. To which god have you pledged to all this time? None but me, you filthy worms."_

On the spur of the moment, it was as if the sky had raised to his favor when distant thunder was heard from the castle outskirts, as if Genichiro's rage had awakened an old deity whose odds were upon him. He felt tiny hands curl around crisped strands of fur, a weeping face buried into his mat, the Divine Heir soaking his pelt as if the general was some kind of rag. It was disgusting.

The ever present thought in the General's brain was a single word that had kept on rumbling against the walls of his skull ever since his body had tasted the first strokes of affliction.

_"Kill"._

Nobody knew where it came from: a lightning bolt struck a dozen guards attempting to sneak around the beast, turning them into singe. Another one, stronger than the first, hit the wooden boards that held the girders, destroying a good portion of the bridge and starting a fire. The shinobi had been one of the few close to almost fall into the pit.

Genichiro's lips twisted into a grimace. That would have been a terrible waste.

He was no longer fond of cooked meat, though he thought he might enjoy the look on the Divine Heir's countenance after his loyal dog had been turned into a crisp. Then again, flesh tasted much better when fresh.

With the bridge mostly clear, Genichiro headed on his two back legs for the shinobi, keeping the Divine Heir secure in his grasp. What remained of his left arm clung horribly from his shoulder and swung in every direction like a broken pendulum. If grandfather had witnessed such ignominy from his grandson, there would be no room left for anything except mockery. Isshin would have never quivered at such a creature, no matter how great its thirst for blood was. People knew no threat had been enough for Isshin Ashina to lay down his sword. Had the old man been still alive, though, Genichiro would ensure grandfather's fate was met with great _flavour_.

The shinobi made sure there was enough space left between the beast and himself, but the heel of his sandal sunk down to where the bridge had split, detaching tiny chunks of debris. Something swelled inside the General when he glimpsed a minor change in the ever composed exterior of the shinobi. It happened so quickly it could have been easily missed had he blinked just once, but it was there: eyebrows loosening slightly, a small "o" popping between his lips.

_"Hesitate and you lose"._

The smell was heavy now. He was _infuriatingly_ close.

Tiny hands scratched at his burned skin, but he didn't care. If anything, he felt slightly amused by the young lord even daring to sink his baby teeth into an open wound in his shoulder. It only tickled. Genichiro retaliated with a faint squeak that intended to mock him for his poor attempts at keeping his stupid dog alive.

He knew the shinobi would try sneaking under his legs, using one of his useless prosthetic gadgets to stun him before surprising him with a backstab, bestowing enough time for him to snatch the young lord away from his grip. So he was prepared.

Genichiro was definitely insane, but he was no fool yet. Not even when a shuriken sunk deep into one eye did he loosen his hold on the Divine Heir. Perhaps, out of all the tricks under the shinobi's sleeve, he didn't expect a swarm of glowing butterflies to follow up and dig straight into the bleeding hole around the sharp tip of the star.

For a split second, he forgot about the Divine Heir and about the restoration of Ashina; about the severed arm that still lied on the ground like a sorry thing. Genichiro forgot about his rabid hunger, about that slippery _flesh_ he so _fucking_ craved. He released his grip and raised his right hand up to grip fingers around the shuriken, and pulled out.

The butterflies, which were feasting upon his eye and causing a ruckus, wouldn't leave.

_"What have you done to me, you flea-ridden mutt!?"_

It came out in a feral roar instead, but the interrogation was clear. The Wolf had taken the young lord with him and he was running back towards the castle grounds.

No one should anger the monster when it's hungry.

With the speed of a hunting cat, Genichiro leapt towards the roof of the archway that accessed to the fortress area, with enough strength to cause his weight to demolish the building and block a potential escape route. He heard the Divine Heir scream in terror. Just as quickly, the beast pounced back on the slippery shinobi and, this time, both man and boy were knocked down onto the ground. Claws gripped around the Wolf's neck, dragging his body across half-scorched wood, brutally enough to tear into the old fabric of his haori.

They stopped before reaching the split section of the bridge. Their position allowed Genichiro full room for dominance. Even though the Wolf visibly struggled to break free of his grip, there were no useful means for the shinobi to outsmart him this time. The hand that kept him against the ground was wide enough to engulf more than half his body. If Genichiro dared to press on just a little more, he might be even able to hear the lovely crack of bones.

Such a delicate little thing.

The Mortal Blade with which his arm had been sliced off remained out of reach from the weight of his hand. He pulled it out with his teeth until it came free from the man's grip around it, the corner of Genichiro's lips curling up into something that could have been mistaken for a human smile, but instead looked a lot more like the triumphant grimace of a hyena. Without erasing such smugness off his own face, Genichiro dropped Fushigiri into the pit, then repeated the same action with Kusabimaru, leaving him unarmed.

Save for the prosthetic arm.

The thought of closing his maw around it and pulling until the sweet crack of tool detaching from bone reached his ears, of the damned shinobi's eyes widened with fear…

It was all too enticing.

Genichiro leaned forward, his intentions clear.

He was caught by the scent of him. Stronger in his neck, below his jaw. Perhaps a whiff would do…

He pressed his snout against him and breathed him in.

It was astounding how well trained the shinobi was, keeping a cool façade even though he knew he wouldn't live to see the sun rise. And yet, Genichiro was able to feel his pulse, throbbing relentlessly beneath the tender skin of his throat. Plus his scent… treacherous pheromones revealed a man who was fighting to stay calm, to drown the terror that so obviously flowed through his entire body.

Genichiro breathed him in once more, trying to memorize his scent for future acquaintances.

"Let him go, please! Take me instead, but let him go!"

He was almost tempted to ignore the boy's cries, at those tiny hands tugging at the fur in his thigh. But the lord's voice was enough to bring his focus back into his surroundings, for the sound of burning wood came up just as clear and dangerous as it had been moments ago.

"The bridge is going to collapse!" Lord Kuro screamed.

Beneath the pressure of the beast's fingers, the shinobi made an attempt to speak, although his voice came out as a groan:

"My Lord, find your way back to the castle…"

Tears fell down the boy's cheeks like rivulets. For a moment, Genichiro believed the Divine Heir would follow his dog wherever he went.

Instead, he wiped the moisture off his face with both hands before turning around and running towards the castle grounds, leaving his faithful shinobi at Genichiro's mercy.

Such treason.


	3. Clutching at straws

Wolf was only twelve when his adoptive father tied a knot around his bruised wrists and bound his ankles together with a rope attached to a boulder at the end of it. The man had thrown a shimmering coin into a pond before them. He pointed at the sinking copper with a thick finger, instructing a command with enough unspoken hostility to make Wolf forget he was _still_ allowed to breathe.

"Quite deep. This one will do."

Initially, Wolf glanced into the murky waters of the pond to gauge its depth. Then, he gazed over at Father with a silent inquiry before the look he received in return silenced any misgivings.

"The journey of the shinobi is an uphill battle very few can overcome," Owl stressed. There were no pleasantries in the way he held onto his authority, so the callow Wolf did not ponder with much trepidation. _"Question your Father, boy, and you will pay the price."_ These words, albeit unspoken, were perpetual in Owl's scarred countenance. Wolf was sworn to know it better than most.

How many times had he caught himself toying with the prospect of running away in the night, only to conclude he would be spotted before the break of dawn? The thought chilled him. After all, his father's wrath was far worse than his disappointment.

So he would do what was asked, even if disappointment meant drowning in a 20-feet pond, even if his father had no choice but to retrieve his pale, swollen body from the dismal depths, assuming he cared enough to honor his son with a proper burial.

When a large hand settled on his back, heavy like the paw of a beast, lunging him forward, Wolf's toes balanced on the rough edge of the slope, as though willingly delaying the trial his Father was forcing upon him. But the weight of the boulder tipped it downhill, setting an ounce of anticipation before the boy's feet lost any safe contact with the ground, his body inevitably hauled and plunged into the pond.

The feeling of Owl's hand against him lingered on his back as he was dragged inwards with a speed he couldn't have readied himself for. He began fumbling fingers over the tight knot around his wrists, striving with the urgency to release his hands before the first symptoms of suffocation began. But perseverance was the key to success, so he did his best to keep up with a cool, unreadable exterior as the weight of the boulder pulled him deeper, passing by colorful koi that would help the situation to appear less critical, were it not for the unsettling truth that these fish wouldn't hesitate to bite on his _soon-to-be_ corpse.

_"Hurry up."_

Wolf vaguely thought of the pot noble, who wanted to become a great carp. He saw his eyes in the koi that stopped by to nose around. They were red.

His Father's eyes were red too. He had seen their glow, just before being plummeted to his demise by a hand so large, with spikes at the tip of its fingers that would gladly draw blood out of him, should he not succeed in the trial.

_"Let him go, please! Take me instead, but let him go!"_

The boulder hit the floor and his fall was halted, hitting the adult shinobi with realization too: he still feared failure a great deal, refusing to endure it again.

A loud screech snapped his eyes back open. Wolf's grappling hook dangled his body from a tree branch that shook violently from not just his weight, but also that of the beast, whose fingers had closed around him, squeezing the air out of his lungs until Wolf's ribcage made an unpleasant creak. Genichiro was large, his body making up for the tight space between the walls that defiled the gorge, but his feet still scraped against the frozen rocks for safety. He struggled to keep himself afloat from a height that robbed Wolf of any hope of survival, should the above branch break.

That is, if the grappling hook didn't break before it.

He was uncertain how much the contraption could endure. The rattling noises released by the prosthetic elicited a concerning strain even for Wolf's ears. Mingled with the throbbing numbness in the juncture between prosthetic and bone, discomfort radiated through his arm. His right hand swiped at Genichiro's with nails that dug belligerently into the bare skin of his fingers as Wolf fought to pry them open for release. However, as expected, it didn't do him any good. Genichiro's rough skin was more like cracked leather: impenetrable, save for a weapon long enough to bore a hole up to the other side.

As a result, Genichiro's grip tightened, causing Wolf to purse his lips in a firm line to muffle an exclamation. If this torment was carried on, he was bound to end up with ribs sunken into his lungs. Genichiro followed up with a steady pull that costed the integrity of Wolf's grappling hook. Sweat dripped from his brow as he watched, almost in slow motion, how the rope teared itself in two, one half remaining attached to the resilient branch while the other half clung uselessly from Wolf's mechanical arm.

He was pulled towards Genichiro's open maw, his teeth awaiting the moment to turn him into hash.

Wolf swore he spotted a river monster in the depths of the pond while he fumbled with the impossible knots that kept his hands bound. It was one of the few moments he had been swallowed by real, tangible fear, similar to one he experienced in the distant future, when the Divine Heir was left to wander the cruel land of Ashina and his retainer condemned to endure severe punishment. For a split second, he saw Father's wrath projected in the face of the red eyed monster before him.

It took him an outburst of resolve to unleash the loaded spear, to thrust the entirety of its blade into Genichiro's open mouth.

The hold around him loosened immediately, and Genichiro's feet slipped in the rough ice until his large body knocked against the sharp crevices of the steep walls. With significant strength, Wolf removed the spear from the beast's throat before he too slipped from his reach and fell to the bottomless valley. Genichiro tumbled soon after, along with pieces of detached ice and stone.

The young Wolf wondered for how much longer his body could put up with this savagery. His chest felt tight and it was yelling for an oxygen that was way far from his reach. He was going to die there, in a pond, bound by ropes and held down by a boulder, because he wasn't fast enough. His Father would gloat over his son's disappointing performance, shaking his head at his clumsiness, before he'd turn around to go looking for another defenseless, starving cub to take and nourish for his own selfish ends.

Wolf's head hit against the round edge of a slope. Something gashed through the fabric of his hakama and into the flesh of his leg.

The smell of scorched wood rached his nostrils before he impacted with a tough object. His body convulsed belligerently.

Wolf saw nothing, then. Only a blackness. A void.

When a pair of wide hands grabbed from his waist to pull him out of the cold water, to lie him face up on the grass, to press one, two… five times against his chest, brutally enough to break two of his ribs, for a mouth to close over his own and to blow air into him… a process that repeated itself in a loop. Wolf saw nothing of that.

Until he began coughing water out of his lungs. He could see a glimpse of Owl helping him roll over so that he wouldn't choke.

His Father's eyes had never looked more raging, ruthless and deceived as they were.

"Useless brat," he snarled, "you will never be the Wolf I aimed you to be. Just a puppy, an easy prey."

He felt the sourness of spite hit the back of his tongue. He didn't retaliate, despite yearning to call his Father names that shouldn't be appropriate for a twelve-year old. Wolf shut his eyes, either to avoid looking at his Father's towering figure or to stop the tears from streaking his face. However, Owl still held his jaw harshly enough to make his bones ache, forcing his eyes open.

"Your Father is absolute… and yet you disregard him." Owl hissed.

Wolf's body ended up lying above a flat surface, sprawled across remnants of the burned bridge and rocks. He wasn't aware of the rustling nearby. His mind only registered the old memory of his Father's knuckles beating him until his nose splattered blood, making him pay the price for misbehavior and failure.

Monsters, it seemed, were never restricted to inhuman forms.


	4. Wounded dog

_Flap, flap, flap, flap._

Genichiro's pricked ears alighted at the flutters vibrating in his skull. The butterflies nibbled into the sensitive skin at the back of his eyelid and forced it open, so he hurried to let the glowing bugs out, watching them hovering about before landing back inside.

"_Leave me, you vermin!_" , he barked. His hand swatted at them, but they responded by tugging roughly against the rotting flesh of his eye socket. Genichiro wiggled his head to coerce them outside, unaware of his wriggling body slowly cracking the struggling boughs beneath him. "_Do you take me for a hermit crab, or —_"

His flailing was the final push that finally shattered the branches that cradled him. He landed on his back, into a small field of tall, sturdy grass. Even though his vertebrae took the full blunt, the ache that still seized his large body struck him nigh as profoundly as the shock that ran through him when Fushigiri sliced through his limb. He felt the exposed cuts in his skin as he stretched his muscles before rolling over to one side, resting on the soft grass to breathe in the air for relief. He inhaled, taking in the smell of smoke, bones, and cinders. Amidst it all, however, one scent in particular caught his attention.

The scent of iron dove into his nostrils, then lingered dangerously over the pit of his stomach. The grumble that came out of it was all but subtle, but to Genichiro, it provoked a slight pang of guilt creeping through him. Despite the feeling of the sharp tip of the shinobi's spear still fresh in his mauled throat, the memory of smooth flesh sliding down his gullet felt so welcome it rendered him back to salivation. He turned himself into a crippled, insatiable nightmare, _drenched_ in gore from the feathery hairs in his chin to the dirt stuck under his claws. The heavy coppery scent sprung from him like a corpse's smell under the sun, like the unmistakable dread that had come off_ him_ .

This sensation brought him endless pleasure, twisting his mouth up in a grin. The sight of the shinobi, small and helpless under the pressure of his claws, had stirred a concoction of feelings that Genichiro carefully threaded with the delicacy of a weaver. Indeed, there was a strong possessivity blooming there, which unmatched his natural predatory instincts. But the culprit of his craving resided in that smell. He couldn't quite tell what it was, but there had been more than just the scent of skin or defeat.

Genichiro sat on the grass, lacking finesse as his back legs spread out carelessly, like a dog. They hurt, but the smooth grass brought some mild comfort over his sore muscles. He sniffed the air. He wasn't alone in that place. He caught sight of bloodstains on rocks, which seemed quite recent, no doubt belonging to the crestfallen shinobi. The tracks followed downwards, past a floor of mist. Whatever laid beyond it was out of his sight.

He pulled himself upright, shaking some of the dirt off his fur before leaping towards a ledge, then to another, grunting whenever his joints cracked uncomfortably. The more he descended into the bottomless valley, the heavier the scent grew and the more enthralling it became. These platforms proved to be a slippery surface to land on, not quite an easy challenge for a single-armed creature. However, his claws sunk accurately into the icy stones to help him shift from wall, to ledge, to wall, as if he were just a rock-climber instead of a vulgar monster chasing after his prey.

Just as he set foot above one ledge to estimate the length for his next leap, the earth quaked. The stones beneath Genichiro's paw crumbled and detached from the wall. He lost contact with solid ground before he gracelessly whacked against a thick tree branch that quickly split down the middle, plunging Genichiro downhill. This time, though, he was received by something smoother than grass. And silkier.

Something thick tangled around his large body and cushioned him. He still landed on rugged terrain, but wrapped safely in this protection, it didn't hurt half as much. Cocooned by what felt like some kind of nest, he allowed himself a brief respite, but not without taking deep breaths to compose himself first. His tongue entertained itself by twirling and twisting inside his mouth, catching on scraps of body parts that were stuck in his teeth. Just as it traced the contours of his molars as a way to kill the time, Genichiro's fingers also traced rough keratin scales, an hexagonal pattern that almost stole his breath away.

It wasn't a nest.

Cold sweat poured out of him and dampened the fur of his neck. The tissue was _still_ fresh, implying the owner of the shedding lurked nearby. Had to be...

* * *

Deep into the entrails of the Sunken Valley, Wolf gritted his teeth as he struggled to get half his body up, both hands flat above the cold stone ground. He bent one knee upon the gravel, then the other, nearly standing on his fours before collapsing onto the soil, writhing in pain.

As soon as he woke up, he nearly passed out once more from a horrible headache. It felt like a hundred cockroaches eating his brains out; plus, his Father's hellish presence was still fresh in his mind, as if the old man had truly been there. Wolf swallowed some of the mucus that had gathered in his mouth before attempting to lift his torso off the ground, though not without feeling the grinding of his sore tendons against his bones. While he rolled over to sit on the heap of singe beneath him, he spiraled into sickness, making him totter as he loomed over to one side, arms pressed against his stomach whilst he retched. Scraps of the food he had last eaten scattered before him: sweet sticky rice balls that Kuro had made.

Wolf's pale face stared at the mess. He had never felt more miserable in his life.

He was more stricken by disgust than anything else. He thought himself unable to forgive his mistakes, but this? This was the icing on the cake.

His sodden robes reeked of sweat and guts, of smoke and urine. It wouldn't have been a surprise if his bladder loosened during his unconscious state. Laying back down like a dying animal, he closed his eyes and listened to his jagged breathing and the hammering thump-thumps of his heart, which drummed against his chest as if it wanted to hop out at any given moment.

His right leg hurt like the devil. Wolf tried to bend his knee, but he had to stop right away. He pursed his lips as an unbearable wave of pain washed over him. His bone must have broken during the fall.

For the first time, Wolf felt an outburst of bitter laughter creeping up into him.

He almost swore he saw Father staring at him from a distant ledge, shaking his head as he studied his son's pathetic performance. "_You'll never be the Wolf I aimed you to be. Just a puppy._" Perhaps he was. Perhaps his hard work had been all for nothing.

He lost the Divine Heir once in his life, but at least then, Lord Kuro was secured in the comfort of a room. This time, it was a lost boy in the middle of the battlefield.

Just like he once was…

Wolf never wished for this to happen.

He attempted to sit again, although this time, he took care his leg shifted as little as possible. He eyed the torn fabric of his hakama, catching a glimpse of a bleeding wound in his thigh. Reluctantly, Wolf pulled the scraps of cloth apart to expose his flesh. There was not only a bruise blooming around a nasty lump in his thigh, but also an open cut that revealed part of his broken femur. He frowned at the sight.

With trembling fingers, he searched for a spare gourd in one of his purses. He stumbled upon a bag of coin, a few empty vials, a persimmon, and some uneaten Senpou candies. Unplugging the empty gourds, Wolf crossed fingers that there was liquid left to relieve some of the numbness of his thigh. He squinted when a couple of drops spilled above the cut.

Rather than finding relief, Wolf's leg burned.

His surroundings didn't look any better either: ice, stones and junk from the collapsed bridge scattered in a gloomy place, as well as remains of scorched body parts. The air was foul and humid. There was a small mound of grass that was covered in ice, but it was out of reach. The frozen leaves would bring some comfort to his leg. Perhaps he could drag himself up to it...

Wolf laid down to start crawling when the floor began to shake.

He knew it wasn't _just_ an earthquake; the tremor came along with a hissing rustle that sounded oddly familiar. Gravel splattered under his weight, scraping against his exposed skin. Last time there had been a quaking in the Sunken Valley, Wolf had been faced with a horrible, horrible sight...

It was like being dipped into cold water. He noticed the marks on the dust above the flat piece of land he had unfortunately ended up on, just a short distance away from his whereabouts. He had been sleeping in the company of an old scaly foe this whole time.

Unarmed and severely injured, Wolf was bound to be another prime morsel.


	5. Caught between

As Wolf dragged his body across gritted earth, he held back the urge to bite into his fist to stifle a wail. He stopped halfway to catch his breath after his thigh grazed against ridged stones and some of the dirt slipped into his open wound. Reluctantly, Wolf rolled over, fingers already fumbling with his scarf before leaning over his injury. His hands nimbly worked as they applied a bandage over the cut, if only to simply shield his skin from the exterior and to facilitate his movements.

Despite his critical condition, Wolf preserved the true grit of a shinobi, but his stalwart spirit didn't come without impetus from deeper motives. He didn't have much choice other than laying down as bait or striving for survival, but even resurrection proved to be questionable in the face of this jeopardy. The power of the Dragon's Heritage wouldn't be of use to a maimed body… _would it?_

For a fleeting moment, Wolf entertained the concept of a disemboweled, headless creature, wandering the land wearing nothing but rags of skin that clung from a grimy skeleton. In his only hand carried a skull that didn't belong to him, but to some rotting animal: a fallen shinobi flaunting the skull of a wolf. It was certainly a sight to behold should reality overcome fiction, and his stomach twisted at the thought.

The hissing of the Serpent reverberated nearby, making Wolf's hairs stand on end. He hustled back towards the mound, swiftly enough to hit his right knee against the rugged surface. He bit his lip.

_"Don't make a sound."_ It was his own thinking, but the voice sounded like Father's, following Wolf like spirit emblems fleeing from a corpse.

Eventually, he foretold the cold, smooth texture of the leaves adhering to his robes, which would be a welcoming change of pace, much better than the threat of claws around his neck, of hot, putrid breath on his face. Perchance, should his exertion be in vain, even the jaws of a Serpent might feel warmer than a noontide sun. Wolf paused, resting his leg for a moment. He prayed Lord Genichiro's fall was damaging enough to break **all** of his bones.

His nails dug into the soil anew when a chill bloomed in the pit of his stomach. Wolf froze, —not that he minded solitude, but he couldn't lie to himself either. Ever since Father introduced them, Lord Kuro had proven to be pleasant company to be around, one which Wolf genuinely cherished, perhaps a little _too much_ for his liking. It was selfish and unsuitable of him, but it gave him a reason to preserve his will to live. As of now, he was shaken by harsh repentance: the boy would no longer know about him, nor would he acknowledge that, in a nook, deep within the Wolf's heart, the shinobi treasured those memories a great deal.

But he could live again to prove it. Maybe.

A shadow loomed and slithered above him, petrifying Wolf on the spot. The mound was within his reach, should the Serpent detect him now it would be plain vile and obnoxious. His stretched arm grazed fingertips over the outlines of the vegetation, chilly and soaked under his calloused skin. The shadow crept beyond Wolf's location —a hissing right turn—, giving him a chance to finally push forward and slide into the sea of grass.

He let out a quiet groan once the smooth leaves cradled his weight, like a soft bedroll. Wolf thought he could allow himself a brief moment of respite with enough time to look after his injury. His scarf came loose from around his thigh to be dampened with molten ice, using it to apply gentle pressure on the swollen skin around his cut. He clenched lips at the sudden chill, not enough for it to expunge the soreness, but still able to bring some mild comfort to him, which is what Wolf wanted. Likewise, while tucked beneath the tall stems, he prayed to remain invisible to outside eyes.

Wolf jerked his head up only to be greeted by the titanic size of the reptile towering above him. He had nul interest in reptilian biology, but he could tell its aged constitution by the burdensome zigzags, the wrinkled scales and the grey barbs that sprouted from them. The Serpent tilted its head to the side, testing the air with its tongue, allowing Wolf to get a glimpse of the dry blood on its eye —where Kusabimaru had once acted upon. He wondered if the beast could smell him from that spot. He hoped not.

Consequently, he grew used to blending in, and so went on with tending to his leg.

Blood gushed out and soaked his scarf. Wolf wondered if Lord Genichiro would be a fitting rival for the Great Serpent.

The pale-haired monster vanished from the earth like smoke, but there was the certainty that no drop would kill a victim of the Rejuvenating Waters unless there was a Mortal Blade waiting at the bottom, embedded into the dirt and ready to cut across undying flesh. From his hideout, Wolf searched for a source of crimson light amidst the junk, but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. He caught himself expecting Lord Genichiro to show up, if only to head the Serpent's attention off him —which had slithered closer now, so that Wolf could spot the jagged row standing out the pink gums in its mouth. Should the reptile display a greater strength over the unlucky beast, perhaps Wolf could worm his way out of that place, for as long as the Serpent kept its focus on its prey.

On the contrary, should Lord Genichiro win…

Would he stop to feed on the meat, allowing Wolf time to sneak out once he slumbered with a full stomach? He wouldn't hold his breath.

He was surprised by a sudden flick of tongue into his hideout. In spite of fighting back his ragged breathing, Wolf donned an impassive demeanor. The Serpent crept closer, sliding across the mound until its bulky head was within Wolf's touch, if only the shinobi dared dragging his prosthesis a little forward. The Serpent curled an inch past and finally stopped. Wolf looked down at his leg: most of the blood had dried off, but the wound still looked fresh. He felt the inkling of a fever hot on his forehead. Pale fingers clutched into the soaked fabric of his scarf, and waited.

A swishing noise came from his left. It crept with forbearance in a straight line before turning right after a short period. Wolf felt a droplet of sweat sliding down his brow and past the bridge of his nose, halting at the corner of his lips. He darted the tip of his tongue out. The taste was… oddly sweet.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost see himself hiding in the palanquin, waiting for the reptile to peek into the crack between the curtains. The soil beneath Wolf's back quaked as the Serpent dragged its length in the shape of an "U", caging the shinobi in the small space between it. Wolf strongly pledged for his nemesis to show up, to divert the snake away from him. Without a working leg, there was little he could do but to stay there on the spot like a pig for slaughter.

_"Get away from me."_

"My, my… but Wolf, we're just getting started."

_"Get your stinking hands off me… you sick bastard."_

He shook the unpleasantness away, though it had been long since he found himself in such a forlorn situation. While the Serpent kept on coiling around Wolf, the shinobi sensed whatever little honor was left slipping from his grasp. He might take care of those demons should he manage to get out of this hassle, though as of now, it almost seemed as if the Serpent was… framing him.

Wolf's fingers tightened until the nails ripped a small hole into the fabric of his scarf. There could have been a marching troop in lieu of a heart sending his body into full alert. Feeling himself burst with adrenaline, he implored Lord Genichiro had not turned around to search for the boy.

As it frozen in its tracks, the breath of the Serpent, thick and reeking of death, enveloped Wolf. It forced him to shield his mouth and nose with the stained fabric, finding the stench of iron much better and bearable than that of putrefaction. One eye glimmered in yellow just a fraction and for one small flicker, the Wolf thought of butterflies digging straight into it. Was this the culmination of everything leading him up into this?

Before the reptile could charge at him, Wolf had already sunk three shuriken into its remaining eye.

The blades dug in deep and the Serpent shrieked agonizingly. Its body took on an aggressive swaying, slamming against sharp structures as it struggled to shake the burning off, even aiming for Wolf himself, who rolled out of its shadow before its weight could crush him like a beetle.

He had readied a second prosthetic tool, when he heard it: loud and raging, a scream echoing from one of the upper roofs.

Wolf barely caught a glimpse of the languid shape of his nemesis prowling from the heights, before he leapt on the Serpent. Those claws teared into pale scales until blood was drawn and sprinkled his fur. That seemed to divert the snake's attention away. Genichiro hopped back towards the ground, reckoning. _Waiting._

They locked eyes. There was a rawness taking in those features unlike any Wolf had seen. He understood this was no mere game of cat and mouse. Genichiro would fight for his worth in the peak of the food chain, whatever it cost.

The shinobi averted his gaze before Genichiro did, aware of a lump in his throat.


End file.
